


Perches In The Soul

by waitingtobelit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Halloween, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, NSFW, Romance, Sappy, Smut, Vampires, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets based on various lines of poetry and song lyrics centered mostly on Dean/Cas but also regarding various characters and relationships in Supernatural. Genres, ratings, characters, pairings, and warnings will vary.





	1. Place Your Hand In Mine (adult)

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written fic for just about five years now. Since getting back into Supernatural, and since the announcement of the series' ending, I've been feeling very inspired. This is going to be a collection of drabbles and ficlets, as the summary says, that will take inspiration from music and poetry. This collection is basically one of my ways of coping with the series ending. The title comes from the Emily Dickinson poem "Hope Is The Thing With The Feathers."
> 
> This particular story was only supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away oops.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated and welcome!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't anything regarding Supernatural or any of its characters. This was written purely for recreational purposes, and no profit is being made from this. I also don't own "Feeling This" by Blink 182, some of the lyrics of which are the source of inspiration for this particular story.

_”Fate fell short this time_  
_Your smile fades in the summer_  
_Place your hand in mine_  
_I’ll leave when I wanna.”_  
\- “Feeling This” by Blink 182

Sunflower yellow in the sky, surrounded by fluffy white clouds for petals and a sea of sky so perfectly blue, the sun seems to sprawl over them from straight out of Pixar movie. The murky water of the lake sparkles beneath it all, a darker kind of diamond, but no less treasured for the way it laps over their feet with just the right amount of cool reprieve. 

July has proven a cruel mistress so far; today is no different, except for the fact that Dean and Cas are actually taking advantage of the weather instead of hiding away in the coolness of the bunker. (Sam thinks the pair of them of morons very likely to get sunburned. Dean thinks that whatever kind of burn he gets today, it will be well worth it.)

Cas’ tanned arms envelope him from behind, holding Dean to the angel’s lap with serene purpose. Both of them are shirtless, having tossed them aside the moment they arrived to this little nook of a beach on the lake, and both are wearing jeans, Cas having borrowed a pair of Dean’s for the occasion. Dean has his arm wrapped around Cas’ shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair, while Cas is smiling as he presses lazy, hot kisses to the side of Dean’s neck, occasionally biting down on heated flesh. He has one arm wrapped around Dean’s chest and one hand making its way slowly down Dean’s abdomen, kneading and pulling at freckled, flushed skin along the way. With each touch, Dean lets out a huff of hot air and a strangled moan, his hips undulating in time with Cas’ kisses.

They’re both still damp from the swim they took earlier, and their feet tangle together in the water. Dean shifts against Cas, his toes and fingers both curling at the angel’s ministrations. He can feel Cas pressing behind him, which draws another low, wanting noise from his heaving chest. The combination of arousal and heat is as intoxicating as the lemonades mixed with vodka they’d consumed earlier; Dean feels drunk in the best possible way in Cas’ company. This spark between them might be fairly new, and fairly fraught, given that they still have the threat of the Darkness to worry about, but goddamn Dean wouldn’t trade any of what he has with Cas now for the world, regardless of how obstinate he’s been in the past.

They have the summer sun, the seemingly endless lake before them, and all of today before they have to resume their responsibilities to the world. He’ll be damned (again) if they’re not going to savor this brief respite that they’ve stolen for themselves.

“How did you find this place?” He manages to ask, his voice husky and just barely above a gasp. Cas sucks a hickey into the side of his collarbone, and he groans, body arching into the angel, who presses his smile into Dean’s neck.

“Accidentally,” Cas admits, nuzzling at the side of Dean’s face as Dean clutches at Cas mop of messy hair and moves his other hand to stroke and grasp at what he can reach of the angel’s denim clad thigh. Cas moans at the touch, his feet brushing against Dean’s own with increased fervor. “I was looking for ingredients for a spell to use against Amara, and wound up here. It reminds me of that dream of yours by the water, with the fishing. I thought that you would like it.”

“This place is perfect,” Dean sighs, tilting his head to try and meet Cas’ gaze. “You’re perfect.” It slips out without Dean meaning to say it. He hesitates, but he doesn’t regret the words; words that mean so much more than Dean can bring himself to say out loud. 

Cas pauses and fixes Dean with the bluest gaze the hunter has ever known, those blue eyes as bright as the sky above them piercing right into Dean’s soul. He sucks down a breath of air before Cas is leaning down to kiss him, softly and fervently all at once. Dean moans into the kiss, a long and low string of sounds that vaguely resembles Cas’ full name.

Cas makes sure Dean’s eyes are open and looking right at him before he speaks, deliberate and slow, voice full with the weight of everything he feels for Dean. And that weight? Dean is certain that weight could stop the Earth from turning. And he’s certain he bears the same exact weight himself.

“So are you.”

It’s enough to take Dean’s breath away as Cas leans down for another kiss, this one much more searing and deliberate than before. The pair of them grasp and clutch at one another beneath the sun, their feet stumbling in the water. Cas eventually maneuvers them into standing, hands moving to latch onto the belt buckles of Dean’s jeans as he steers him backwards, all the while unrelenting in the way he all but drinks Dean whole. Dean, meanwhile, clutches at Cas’ face, letting the pads of his fingers graze against every beautiful nook and cranny of Cas’ skin he can reach as he presses himself against Cas with an increasing desperation.

“I think my poor trench coat is feeling a little lonely,” Cas says when he finally pulls away to allow Dean to catch his breath. He gestures with his head to the discarded garment, sprawled out across the sand. He arches his eyebrows and smirks before pushing Dean right down onto it. “We should fix that.”

Dean laughs as he falls, letting his head fall back in the sand as Cas climbs over and onto him, shoving his jeans and underwear off in the process before moving to do the same to Dean, who lifts his hips and wriggles to help.

“This coat probably needs therapy after everything it’s seen,” he points out with a smirk of his own, green eyes glittering with obvious amusement as he recalls the numerous other times Cas’ coat served a very ulterior purpose than the one for which it was designed. To prove his point, he shakes his ass again, wriggling his eyebrows up at Cas in the process.

Cas beams, moving between Dean’s legs to wrap them around his own hips. Dean shudders and gasps, feeling like the sunscreen Cas helped spread over his shoulders and back earlier that morning in Cas’ hands. He lets out another mewl of a noise when Cas playfully reaches underneath him to smack his ass.

“We’re only just getting started,” the angel grins, wild and lovely as this whole day has turned out. He leans down to kiss Dean senseless as Dean leans up to meet up, grabbing and clutching at what he can reach of Cas’ shoulders and squeezing him between his legs. They both sigh and moan, a mixture of each other’s names that overwhelms the buzzing of the radio Dean set up upon their arrival. 

Cas is gentle and insistent all at once with the lube and condoms they’d brought with them, his long, elegant fingers drawing the most delightful kind of music out of Dean. They both laugh and grin as they kiss, messy and lazy. There’s no rush; the sun shines above and the water shines next to them, and Dean and Cas both shine with sweat as Cas slides into Dean, melodic as the lapping of the water against the shore.

They become a part of nature, skin sliding against skin and lips pressing against lips. Hands grasp and mouths moan, and Dean can’t help but wonder if this is what it was like in the Garden of Eden. Cas thrusts into him with slow, deliberate movements, seeking out and pressing against every spot he knows that makes Dean writhe and arch off the ground. Dean shifts upwards to meet each thrust, moving his hands into the angel’s hair to pull in the way he knows makes Cas’ toes curl. 

Yes, they will get sand in uncomfortable places, and yes, Dean can feel the way Cas’ coat bunches up beneath him. Neither of them gives a damn.

They are creation in and of itself, their own form of art; and as the angel and the hunter make love, hands and bodies and souls entwined, Dean can’t help but think that, if this is the only slice of heaven if ever gets, it will be enough. He doesn’t believe in fate; he believes that they all make their own choices. And this, all of this? This is the most important choice he’s made in his whole life. And no twist of fate is ever going to take this away from him.


	2. Holy Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes running in the early morning and winds up encountering more than he bargained for. A lot more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something for the anniversary of Dean and Cas meeting, and I've been listening to a lot of Taylor Swift lately, so here we are. This was also only supposed to be a drabble but, once again, I kind of got carried away. 
> 
> This particular story is PG-13 for heavy making out and Dean's mouth, with a sprinkling of canon typical violence.
> 
> Any feedback is appreciated and welcome!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't anything regarding Supernatural or any of its characters. This was written purely for recreational purposes, and no profit is being made from this. I also don't own "Holy Ground" by Taylor Swift, some of the lyrics of which are the source of inspiration for this particular story.

Running is its own kind of music, Dean finds. He likes to run; he can create his own rhythm, set his own pace. It’s one of his more practical hobbies, helping to keep him in fighting shape and to burn off the excess booze and burgers he tends to consume on a daily basis. Running is one of the few forms of exercise that Dean understands and understands well; after all, he’s been running his whole life long.

Running is also an escape; Dean can shut off the rest of the world when he runs, creating his own sort of peace.

Even if that peace only lasts for the time it takes for Dean to complete the run.

When he runs by choice, there are no monsters to be hunted, no world on the verge of falling over the precipice for the umpteenth time. There is only the music: the combined melodies of his feet pounding the dirt, his heart pounding in his chest, and the pounding of his music playing overly loud in his ears.

Running might not be a sunny April afternoon winding down the road in Baby, Sam and Cas by his side after a long hunt, but it comes pretty damn close.

And it’s the best weapon he currently has at his disposal to deal with the unrelenting pounding on the door inside of his head. Michael grows more demanding, more violent, the longer they hold out; the more time they spend searching for a cure outside of a box at the bottom of the ocean. Dean doesn’t trust himself to sleep tonight, in the same way he hasn’t trusted himself to sleep for the past two nights straight, dangerous and unstable territory. And running will, in the long run, only drain him of more energy. But what else can he do, when he fears losing control, falling under as Michael takes control of him once again, this time, for good?

Running gives him a sense of control; Dean is quick to shrug off his flannel and his jeans in exchange for a worn Led Zepplin t-shirt and his favorite pair of running shorts, a rusted beige color that practically matches Cas’ trench coat. After quickly slipping on some socks, he grabs his keys, his wallet, his phone and his headphones; he sneaks in an ankle gun and an ankle knife into his socks, careful as he ties his running shoes.

It takes him all of ten minutes to get ready, even with Michael screaming in his head. He queues up his favorite running playlist, one Cas helped him make, and presses play as he slips his headphones over his head. Full of Led Zepplin, Motorhead, AC/DC, and, yes, Bon Jovi, Dean gives himself over to the wailing of the guitar and the stomping drums as he makes his way out of the bunker and into the night.

A quick glance at his phone tells him it’s 3:15 in the morning. Even though Lebanon’s a small town, and the bunker is situated even further in the middle of nowhere, Dean knows he’s taking a risk going out on his own like this. With all of the things that go bump in the night that want him dead? He’s basically a running bullseye.

But he’s always loved the woods around the bunker, the way nature seems so especially raw and untamed so far from human civilization. He loves the feeling of unpaved dirt beneath his feet and unbroken wilderness surrounding him; he loves the way all of it makes him feel so unbound, so without limits. So free. 

He’s quick to dismiss any concerns and worries - tonight is all about running hard enough to silence the archangel running riot in his brain. 

Dean’s appreciative of the coolness of the night air, the way it flows down his throat like a strong whiskey as he breathes and nips at his bare skin like an early morning frost. The world glows dull silver beneath the moon and stars, shadows bursting out in abundance between the trees like weeds. With Robert Plant crooning in his ears and the offbeat beauty of the world around him, Dean almost forgets how screwed he and the rest of the world happen to be in that moment. He can almost believe heaven really is a place on Earth.

That moment of belief doesn’t last long.

A sudden impact of another body striking against his own forces Dean’s headphones away, flying through the air and landing in a nearby bush. Dean flails as his body hits the ground, a distinct thumping sound commemorating the occasion.

“Fuck!” He shouts, wincing as his head bounces against bare dirt and the world turns into a carousel of blurs and faded edges. He reaches for the knife in his left ankle, but the asshole who charged him blocks him from doing so. He only just has time to glance up and see a second set of teeth descending from the young (young looking) man above him before his instincts kick in and he rolls.

But the vampire is strong, a seasoned fighter; he moves with Dean and winds up trapping him against the ground after a second roll. The world spins, an archangel yells, and a vampire grins just inches from his face, poised to take a bite. Dean’s going to die; Michael will take control, and he can’t stop any of it from happening. Panic begins to rise in his throat like bile.

A swooping sound rattles the air and silver flashes; the smirk on the vampire’s face flies off with the rest of his head as the blade of a machete cuts it clean off. Behind the weapon, one angel of the Lord stands, expression fierce as he waits for the vampire head to finally land. He gives the remaining body a good kick, sending it over towards the head.

“Cas. Thank God.”

Dean lets himself relax into the ground for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Which is, of course, when Michael increases the intensity with which he pounds on the door inside Dean’s head, and Dean, vulnerable and exposed, writhes, a worm caught on a particularly nasty hook.

“Dean!”

Cas shouts his name but Dean can barely hear him over the waves of pain shooting through him. He groans, clutching at his head; he can feel the heat and weight of tears as they spill down the side of his face just as Cas kneels beside him, pulling him up and in towards his chest. Instinctively, Dean reaches for what he can of Cas’ coat, fingers curling in the rough and worn fabric as Michael beat, beat, beats against the door in his head. (He thinks he can feel the wood of said door start to splinter.)

“Cas,” he groans, almost sobs. “Cas, he’s so loud. I can’t - ” And he hates this; hates that he’s breaking, hates that he’s so vulnerable and weak and exposed. He’s supposed to be the strong one, the one holding Team Free Will together by his sheer stubbornness alone. But right now, in this moment, Dean is drowning (again), only able to really cling to the one lifeboat in sight. 

“Shh,” Cas pulls him in close, the warmth of his body seeping through what little space remains between them. In spite of his wincing, Dean catches sight the moment Cas’ eyes light up silver blue with grace; his chest tightens as the air leaks out of his lungs at the beauty of that grace as Cas presses a hand to the top of Dean’s head.

“I’m louder,” Cas declares, his features contorting into a particularly determined expression that doesn’t help with Dean’s current state of dizziness. A fluttering sound echoes in the brittle early morning air, and, suddenly, Dean finds himself cocooned by both Cas himself and his wings. Or, what remains of his wings, at least. The tips of those wings feel like cool cotton against his heated face; Dean can almost taste the flush that spreads out across his cheeks as he lets out a noise that can only be described as a whimper at the sensation.

Another moment, and Michael’s pounding dulls, just a bit. Whatever injuries he’s sustained in being tackled to the ground are gone, and it is just enough for Dean to pull himself up a bit; enough for the world to come back into focus. Funny how the world looks exactly like Cas, he thinks. And he should move; should go and look for his phone and headphones. But he can’t move; he can’t bring himself to part from this peace painted shades of silver and blue.

His hands are still very much entwined with the fabric of Cas’ coat, and his gaze is still very much fixed upon the blue gaze above him, bright and warm as starlight. Dean’s throat is dry, as if he’s gone too long without water. His heartbeat is now racing, picking up at a graceless, crooked pace as his heart tries to claw its way up his throat. Feelings he’s spent nearly as much effort at keeping at bay as he has keeping an archangel imprisoned in his mind find their way through all of his cracks as Cas tightens his arms around him.

“Cas,” Dean breathes. No. Prays. Cas’ name on his lips is a prayer, a plea – a desperate verse from a song gone unsung for far too long. His fingers curl in Cas’ trench coat; his lungs and heart beat wildly, a raising crescendo from an old folk song, as he brings his face closer to Cas.

“Dean,” Cas replies, and Dean swears he can see every thought and feeling he’s ever had about the angel reflected in those blue eyes, blue as the best days spent out on the road, chasing after a hunt. Blue as the thunder that announced Cas’ presence when they first met.

Dean’s eyes flutter and fall shut just as Cas’ lips press against his own and the angel tugs the hunter as close as he possibly can against him. He’s right, Dean realizes; Cas really is louder. For once, Michael grows quiet. Buried, almost, by the very essence of Cas.

That first kiss turns into a second turns into a third. With each push and pull, the kisses grow in intensity and desire, blooming from so many years spent nurtured in unspoken words and loaded gestures. Cas parts Dean’s mouth with his tongue; Dean presses Cas’ name into the angel’s tongue, letting all of his most intimately vulnerable pieces follow suit.

“_Cas_.” (I love you.)

“_Cas_.” (I need you.)

“_Cas._” (Don’t leave me.)

“_Cas._” (I’ve loved you since I first saw you.)

And Cas answers with those same words, spoken in the language of Dean’s own name. Dean’s hands move into Cas’ hair, and Cas’ hands move all over. One hand finds its way to the place on Dean’s shoulder where the mark of his hand once stood out, raw and read against pale skin. Cas clasps his hand around that shoulder, and Dean shudders, Cas’ name falling from his mouth like a beloved Led Zepplin lyric.

Dean has never mentioned this to anyone, not Sam, nor even to Cas himself, but he remembers the exact moment Cas’ hand touched his shoulder down in Hell. He remembers the sudden sparks, like shattering lights, racing from Cas’ grip to travel all throughout Dean’s body; he remembers his soul catching fire, a different kind of fire from the sulfur and brimstone caging him in the Pit.

This morning, his soul is struck by lightning.

Cas’ wings seem to flutter above them both, delicate yet slightly frenzied, like a butterfly taking flight. They keep brushing against Dean, light, feathery touches that seem to warm him all the way down to his bones.

Dean isn’t sure whether he’s falling or flying; Cas is gentle as he lays him down on the ground. But, God, he wants to keep doing this forever as he and the angel blur all of their lines together. The sun starts to rise, but the moon lingers; gold, ombre, and silver all blur their lines together too.

Too much entwined with Cas, Dean fails to notice that his phone has landed fairly close beside the pair of them, his headphones not much further in the distance. He also fails to notice that, in the scuffle, the phone shifted from his running playlist to the playlist he’d put together as a potential new mixtape for Cas a few months ago, a playlist much less rigid in structure and filled with songs he would never openly admit to liking.

Currently, that playlist is blaring one Taylor Swift song repeat, Taylor Swift who sings of dancing and never looking down. 

Dean discovers a new kind of running in the break of dawn; Cas learns what it means to never look down.

While they blaspheme together, while they concentrate their own ground, Taylor sings:

“_ Cause darling, it was good never looking down. And right there where we stood was holy ground._”


	3. This Is Halloween (adult)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean laughs, knocking against Cas’ shoulder in the process. “That’s the beauty of these movies, man,” he says, smiling through a face full of chocolate. “Watching people make poor life choices and not having to be responsible for any of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm still in pain from 15x03 so here's some shameless fluff set in an AU of season 13, based on 14x04, "Mint Condition." Rated R for vaguely sexual content.
> 
> Any errors/mistakes are entirely my own, and any and all feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't anything regarding Supernatural or any of its characters. This was written purely for recreational purposes, and no profit is being made from this. I also don't own "This Is Halloween" from The Nightmare Before Christmas, some of the lyrics of which are the source of inspiration for this particular story.

_"In this town we call home_  
_Everyone hail to the pumpkin song_  
_In this town, don't we love it now?_  
_Everybody's waiting for the next surprise."_  
-"This Is Halloween" from Nightmare Before Christmas

\---

Halloween tends to be fairly quiet for them, all things considered. With exceptions, of course, but, overall, October 31st tends to be a night that the Winchesters can lay low and recharge. Which is good this year, because Dean could use the distraction from the Apocalypse World and thinking too much on how he lost his mom. Again.

Sam is currently educating Jack about the wonders of the holiday; hell, Dean can’t remember if Sam said he would at least try showing the kid what trick or treating is. Regardless, Sam and Jack are out for the night, leaving Cas in the bunker library (or so he was last Dean heard from him) and Dean alone in his room, sprawled out across his bed, arms and chin resting on a pillow next to a big old pile of candy he stockpiled earlier this morning, a partially empty bottle of whiskey, and a marathon on Shocker of all his favorites; currently, Hell Hazers 2: The Reckoning is playing, and Dean has to smile, recalling his and Sam’s adventure on that particular set all of those years ago. (He’s sometimes tempted to make fake business cards and/or ids with ‘one hell of a PA!’ embossed on them but he never actually follows through. Still something to think about, though.)

He’s enjoying the cheese of it all with a handful of Snickers and a gulp of whiskey a little more expensive than he usually indulges in (self-care, he’ll tell Sam later, when he inevitably bitches about the cost of it and the fact that Dean shared none of it with him), when a knock echoes at the door, followed by Cas walking in.

“Hello Dean,” the angel says, tilting his head as he observes Dean from his position by the door. Dean turns, and, God, he’s never been so relieved to be able to lay eyes on Cas in his life. Perhaps it’s just the whiskey talking (that, or his long-buried feelings finally clawing their way to the surface), but Cas seems to especially glow in the mixed lighting of the lamp and the television, leaning against the doorframe. (And he hasn’t drunk that much tonight; he’s still on his first glass, his traitorous inner voice tells him. That voice which, unfortunately, sounds too much like Sammy with a knowing smirk on his face.)

“Hey, Cas, what’s up?” Dean asks, the gory happenings on the television echoing behind him. He remains sprawled as ever across his bed, and perhaps he’s only imagining it but Cas’ gaze seems to travel from his head to his toes. Goosebumps and warmth swirl with the whiskey running through his system, and he shifts a little on the bed.

“What are you watching?” Cas asks, directing his attention towards the television with a frown, his nose wrinkling, and goddamn if Dean’s heart doesn’t flutter just at the sight of it. He grins, and he tells himself the heat rushing to his face is from the alcohol, despite the fact that it takes a whole hell of a lot more than one glass of whiskey to get him anywhere even close to drunk, let alone buzzed.

“Horror marathon,” he says simply. “All day and all night. We don’t have a case, so seems like a good way to kill time, given what day it is.”

Cas’ frown seems to deepen, and he tilts his head once again. “I don’t understand. Isn’t your life already a horror movie? Several horror movies,” he amends fairly quickly. 

Dean laughs, tossing his head back again, and he feels Cas’ gaze linger on his exposed throat. He stuffs a 3 Musketeers bar in his mouth to keep from thinking too much.

“Yeah, that’s what Sam always says,” he answers with a shrug, swallowing the chocolate. “But I’ve always enjoyed these kinds of movies; they’re easy enough to check out to, you know?”

Cas says nothing for a few minutes, standing still and observing in that same quiet, dignified manner as when he and Dean first met all of those years ago. Nearly a decade ago, actually, which is strange to think about. (Although not nearly as strange as the fact that Dean can, in fact, trace all of those deeply rooted and deeply covered feelings back nearly as long.)

Dean’s glance falls to the candy next to him, face still warm, as he begins to feel the weight of every piece of chocolate eaten and every unspoken word in the lingering silence.

He’s about to make a smartass reply when Cas is suddenly next to him, gesturing towards the television.

“Would you mind if I joined you?” He asks, a small smile on his face, a face framed by soft stubble and blue eyes. Dean swallows again, despite the fact that he has no food in his mouth.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says, moving the candy and whiskey out of the way, and shifting slightly right himself, to make room for Cas. He picks up his bravado again, as if he simply dropped it in that staring contest he just had with the angel. “You could use with a good horror education.”

“Thank you,” Cas says simply, nodding his head. He moves to sit on the bed, but Dean shakes his head, patting the mattress with insistence. If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do this right, damn it.

“Nah, come on Cas,” he says, grinning like his old self, before he watched Cas die, again. “If we’re having a slumber party, we’re doing this right.”

“A slumber party? I don’t understand,” Cas says, but the corners of his mouth are twitching upwards as he speaks, and Dean’s whole countenance brightens in response.

“You will,” he insists, as Cas finally maneuvers his bulky, trench coat wearing self next to Dean.

Someone dies on screen, bloody and entirely over the top, killed for having sex by some demon or ghost they summoned from hell. But Dean barely registers this fact as the warmth from Cas’ presence seeps like cigarette smoke throughout the room, and their shoulders brush together. Cas even grabs a piece of chocolate, a Hershey’s bar, despite the fact that Dean knows he can’t taste it.

“Alright, Dean,” Cas says, turning to face Dean with a smile. “Teach me everything.”

And teach him, Dean does, as they make their way through the rest of the Hell Hazers movie and move on to stand alone horror films, going off on various tangents about the manner of deaths and the art of particular actors in each scene, Cas listening intently, as he always does. Dean thinks it’s somewhere halfway through The Shining that their hands meet somewhere above the mountain of candy, curling into one another; it’s the beginning of The Amityville Horror that Dean winds up squeezing Cas’ hand, and Cas squeezes back.

As Nightmare on Elm Street plays, several characters having died bloody already, Cas makes his first observation that isn’t a question. “Some of these people are just asking to die,” he says, and it’s made a thousand times funnier by the deep, gravelly tone of his voice. “I mean, honestly. Who goes off alone in a dark house without even something to use as a weapon?”

Dean laughs, knocking against Cas’ shoulder in the process. “That’s the beauty of these movies, man,” he says, smiling through a face full of chocolate. “Watching people make poor life choices and not having to be responsible for any of it.”

Cas is staring at him again, his blue eyes piercing into Dean like a pair of angel blades. He feels his breath catching in his throat as Cas brings up a hand to wipe away the chocolate smeared against the corner of his lips; he nearly chokes on that same breath when Cas brings that hand against his own mouth, licking it clean while his damn blue eyes remain on Dean, whose gaze keeps flickering between the pink of his lips, the stubble of his chin, and the way Cas’ eyes seem to glow even without the aid of grace.

He doesn’t think, he just moves; Dean has their mouths pressed together in a matter of seconds, and Cas has his hand in Dean’s shirt just as quickly as they both moan and push and pull, their lips slipping and sliding together, tongues entering the fray moments later. The sensation of kissing Cas hits Dean like a shot of whiskey; it shoots throughout his system and nearly knocks him off of the bed, years of repressed want finally breaking through the surface of his skin like lightning. And Dean can taste that same want in the way Cas kisses him back, like a man starved finally stumbling upon a feast; he lets out a moan that would put every single one of his previous slutty moments to shame; a moan like a character in a horror movie about to have sex before they die violently.

Dean is the one who tries to flip them, to press Cas into the mattress. But it’s Cas who actually gets the upper hand, with a knowing, cocky smirk that sends all the heat rising between them directly to Dean’s lower belly. When they part so that Dean breathe, he’s panting heavily for air, glancing up at those blue eyes and what he thinks might be the shadows of Castiel’s wings. Shivers run through him, spiking in the way his hips and stomach shoot upwards and his knees spread open to accompany Cas’ body with his own, a beggar’s prayer.

Cas is still smirking when he leans down, mouth pressed directly against Dean’s ear. His hands move to gather both of Dean’s together, pressing them above his head and into the pillows like rope. Dean keeps trying to catch his breath and failing; his mouth keeps trying to form words and failing.

“If we’re going to do this,” Cas says, all Angel of the Lord as he lowers his body to press right up against Dean, “we’re going to do it right.” He rolls his hips sharply downwards, and Dean writhes, Cas’ name unfurling on his tongue like a candy bar wrapper. 

The rest of the night passes in a flurry of limbs, mouths, bodies, and extremely creative (and inappropriate) uses of Halloween candy.

On the television screen, a man dies, sucked into and chewed up by his own bed.

Elsewhere in the bunker, Sam and Jack arrive home just in time to discover that the bunker’s walls, even with all of their warding, really aren’t as soundproof as they seem, and Sam grabs himself a whiskey as he sits down to try and explain the birds and the bees to Jack.


End file.
